Sometimes Alphonse had nightmares.
He had had them back home, too—while on the other side of the gate. Horrible, quaking images that left him breathless and ready to scream.
At first, he wasn't sure what they were—the fragments seemed so strangely dear, like memories—but something horrid and grotesque they were, too. At home, he would try and forget them, even if they were memories. They were too horrid and awful to be real, he decided. But now that he knew what they were, and…and, well…the trouble was believing he really had experienced all of it.
Alphonse Elric was technically thirteen, but he felt seventeen. Old enough to be what he should be at his brother's side, since Edward was eighteen.
But the truth was, he was still only thirteen.
Thirteen, with the memories of four years mixed in between—memories that should, in truth, belong to someone of far older an age than he.
Thirteen.
Sometimes, when Alphonse would gasp awake, sweating and shaking, he would wonder if his age allowed him the right to still be afraid. To still want to cry. To still want to huddle in a ball and wait for the sun to finally shine.
And then—as if on cue—sometimes, he'd feel the sun's hand on his forehead, calm and soothing. Flesh on flesh—something he knew he sorely missed, and now finally had, although it didn't feel like he'd ever been without it—and there'd be a shift of weight on the hotel mattress. He'd feel the hardness of a prosthetic underneath his head—soothing, somehow comfortable even though it was metal—and that hand would continue to stroke his bangs.
Of course, the sun wouldn't say anything. But that was okay.
Just knowing the sun was there when Alphonse needed his brother most was enough so he could survive the night.
And when morning would come, and they were getting dressed and ready for another day of travelling and odd jobs, he would always try and say what he needed to.
"Hey, Brother?"
"Hm?"
Edward would look at him with those eyes—so mature, still so set and determined even though there weren't any more bodies to restore and philosopher's stones to find—and raise an eyebrow in question. Although he was still so short and slender for his age, he somehow looked so strong and handsome. Capable.
Dependable, is how Alphonse would describe him. Smiling sheepishly, the thirteen-year-old would scratch the back of his head. "Thanks…for last night."
And the answer would always be the same.
"What are you talking about, Al?"
That blank look, those purposefully-dumb eyes. Of course, he'd quickly turn around to hide it, closing his suitcase quickly with a snap. Then he'd say, "Well, we better be off. Don't want to miss our train, right?" and walk out of the room at a brisk pace, suitcase in hand and coat hung over his arm.
Alphonse would smile.
Brother was always bad with words.
"Hey, Al! You coming or not? This train ain't waiting, you know!"
And equally bad at patience, Alphonse would note with biting humor.
"I'm coming!"
But above all faults, at least there was one thing Edward never failed at, Alphonse would reflect as he chased after his brother down the hotel hallway.
And that was being a brother.
Crystal's Notes: Gaaaaaaaah. Brotherly fluff. I had to do it, guys. I'm a victim, you see? Clearly a victim. Yes. (Something like that).
This takes place after the movie, CoS. Still FMA-verse, not Brotherhood. This is more of a ficlet than anything else. I just wanted to explore how Al is now technically thirteen and Edward is eighteen, creating quite a gap in age that wasn't there before. So undoubtedly, Al is bound to be a little bit more afraid of the dark than Ed, who, now that the evils are less to grow up and face so readily, I imagine has realized that it's okay to finally prolong childhood.
So instead of pushing on towards being an adult and being responsible, like we see so constantly throughout the FMA series, I imagine he's letting Al, this time around, take his time growing up.
But those are my thoughts. Hope you enjoyed.